Poetgal

Somehow he lifts it all -
the tawdry shops decked out
with city grime, the clumps
of aimless, scuffing youths
the ritual rush hour trial -
Signor Vivaldi, here inside my car,
full strings ahead in clean air
counterpoint of joy.

Then at the lights I brake
and, mouth open as that ‘domine fili’
wells up, spills out, I turn
and meet him eye to eye.

A glassy stare like that
perhaps once fired a man,
or told a stabbing truth – I’m glad
I wasn’t there, but here
just music separates us.
I could be a name on a grave,
a face on TV, a screen grab -
he won’t remember me.

And I try not to wish just then
for a passenger -
to see the funny side,
to sing the bass line.